


born once of flesh, then again of fire, i am reborn a third time

by debeauharnais



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, dissociation on meyer's part, post-emerald city
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debeauharnais/pseuds/debeauharnais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie’s eyes find Meyer’s – and for a moment, just a moment, he’s looking down and out and in and the hatred in his chest falters and cools and gives way to "I could have lost you". And in the sudden quiet Meyer’s looking back; and he can’t quite manage to hold Charlie’s gaze for more than a heartbeat at a time – his eyes are skittish and shy and the rest of him follows (nervous muscles in his throat and hands and jaw). But he’s looking back and he’s saying "you didn’t".</p>
            </blockquote>





	born once of flesh, then again of fire, i am reborn a third time

**Author's Note:**

> "born once of flesh, then again of fire, i was reborn a third time to the sound of my name humming haikus in heaven’s mouth." - aberjhani, the river of winged dreams.

He blinks open his eyes and the night’s melted into the early hours – hours of deep coal skies and heavy breaths amidst the smudges of tired city lights (pale and self-sacrificing; these old cities must grow weary of dust-thick lungs, too). And there’s a fatigued ache behind his lashes; there’s fog in his head and in his arms, there’s a breathless weight in his chest because it’s late (it’s early) and for a moment he’s lost himself in this easy exhaustion (fingers that he’s forgotten how to use; windpipe suffocating on too much air). He’s _tired_. And for a moment, the room, the city, the _world_ is blue. Warm. Drowned. He lifts his head from where he’d collapsed against the table, temple settled in the crook of his arm and cheek pressed to the cool wood that still smells a little of his mother’s pasta sauce he’d spilled a week ago. And he wrinkles his nose at the stiffness in his neck and the twinge in his back, wonders faintly why he hadn’t sought out the comfort of his mattress instead.

And all at once he remembers – remembers Meyer’s out on business, out in Atlantic City; realises he’s not _here_. Charlie finds his feet with a hand on the table top, rolls his shoulders to steady himself; and he glances around, treads cautiously from room to room and finds them empty. There’s only warm air that smells of sleep and rising unease; there’s only his finger drifting absently from the last light switch and the electric hum and flicker of bulbs relieving darkness, revealing vacant chairs. His features settle into a dark frown. He glances to the clock, blinks against the sudden light. Almost 3:30. And Meyer’s not back. Immediately his hackles rise and there’s that tight constriction of dread in his throat – and everything in him, every little piece, is snarling _pick up your gun; go find him._ But he stops. Taps his foot restlessly against the floor because he can’t stay still, he can never stay still (he can feel the blood under his skin and as long as it’s flowing he has to move, _move_ ). And he thinks. He thinks – maybe Meyer was caught up in negotiations and thought it easier to spend the night in Atlantic City. Maybe he’s still on his way home. Maybe he’s reporting to AR and he’ll be at Charlie’s door any moment (he holds his breath) (silence). Maybe Meyer’s hurt, dead, buried alive; maybe he’s never coming back because something’s not right, something’s gone wrong, and maybe Meyer needs him and—

There’s a knock at the door and in this fear-heavy silence it sounds like mountains crashing to the earth. Instinctively, he flicks the lights off, leaves only the faint glow of a lamp (dim and ruddy) in the living room bleeding out into the black – (it’s cold beyond these few walls but in here darkness has a softer taste).

“Charlie.” Meyer’s voice is low on the other side of the door, hollowed out by the distance, and he punctuates it with another rap of his knuckles against the door. It’s almost feeble.

Charlie’s at the door before he’s realised he’s crossed the room; and Meyer’s before him, raising wide eyes that, in this smoke-drowned darkness (this haze of paranoia), are gouged out, cavernous, _empty_. And for a moment they simply stare at each other – and Meyer’s struggling to draw that veil of distant winter over his eyes, struggling to rebuild that cold wall that he’s pieced together, brick by brick, since childhood. Charlie can see it. See him forcing down too much emotion, see it leeching out between crevices in all that frost, all those bones Meyer has worked so hard to convince the world are made of stone.

And it scares him.

It’s bearing witness to a violent god stripped down and made human.

“Meyer.” The name sounds strangled in Charlie’s mouth and he swallows, frowns. Meyer’s eyes widen a fraction more (Charlie glimpses thin red veins), clear a little, focus, snap up to meet Charlie’s gaze from where they’d been drifting into another place, another time. And he wants to ask if he’s alright, wants to ask why he’s returned so late from what should have taken a matter of hours. But he clenches the door handle and tries a meagre smile and settles for, “you look like shit.”

Meyer’s eyes slip again, wander aimless and forgotten to the wall beside him. The lilting shadows shed by the lamp behind Charlie have turned Meyer’s face to ash. And Charlie doesn’t know what to do – Meyer’s frozen and it’s making his own fingertips sting from the frostbite; Meyer’s frozen and he doesn’t know how to bring him back, doesn’t know how to save someone who’s only ever saved himself, doesn’t know how to help this vulnerable _child_ that’s only ever been bared teeth and survival – didn’t know he could be anything but. So he does the only thing he can think to do, remembers the way his mother would soothe him with soft hands and a gentle voice, and he settles his hand on Meyer’s shoulder, guides him through the doorway (feels Meyer flinch at the touch and lean into it a moment later) (Charlie tries his best to ignore the tightening in his chest). He clicks the door shut behind them, hovers beside Meyer as he pauses, as he slinks to the table Charlie had been draped across just minutes before and drops heavily into one of the chairs. Charlie eyes him uncertainly for a moment, opens his mouth to break the silence, closes it. Then Meyer’s exhaling a breath that carries with it ribs and bone and curled up fear; he’s resting his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands and Charlie’s first instinct is to reach out and hold him (his second is to raise his voice, demand to know what’s gone wrong) – but this is Meyer withdrawing inwards, reorganising his mind, steadying himself, and he needs to do it alone.

He’ll ask questions later.

So Charlie trudges about behind him, to and fro, quietly occupying his time while Meyer rebuilds himself – he places a generous glass of whisky beside Meyer (when he glances over again it’s empty and Meyer’s head is back in his hands); fetches a spare blanket from his bed and drapes it lightly around Meyer’s shoulders. He shakes it off and it falls to the floor; Charlie stoops to snatch it up, eyes the back of Meyer’s head with a little half-glare – because he’s not _patient_ , he doesn’t like _waiting_ , and it’s making his stomach churn with an unsteady bitter flare because he wants to know what’s happened, he wants to shake it out of him, he wants to know _why_ and _how_ and _who do I have to kill_ ; but it’s Meyer, so he waits, and he paces behind him for what must be hours, tapping his fingers against his thigh with no particular rhythm, clenching his teeth against this rising frustration, and—

And it’s fucking tough. Because it’s been a year now – it’s been a year since he first started looking at Meyer and feeling those little tell-tale pangs. It’s been a year since he first started awake before dawn with Meyer’s voice in his head and arousal pooling like hot syrup in his stomach, since he first eased his fingers inside himself and pretended they were Meyer’s. It’s been a year since the first time he eyed a pretty girl and found guilt prickling at the back of his throat because it wasn’t Meyer and he wants _Meyer_ and, fuck, he wants Meyer to want _him_. But Meyer doesn’t. And, oh, sometimes he fools himself into thinking he _might_ – with a glance that lingers a moment too long or a smile meant only for him or… Or nothing. So Charlie gets on with business. And he takes girls to his bed. And he starts to draw a little away from Meyer, because it’s for the best – it’s better than the alternative _(he’s scared and so he runs)._ And he resigns himself to—

“The deal fell through.” Charlie’s head snaps up from where he’d crouched down to inspect a vaguely rickety sideboard. Meyer’s voice is quiet, it’s a little uneven, but it’s _his_.

“Whaddaya mean it fell through?” He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, stalking over to stand over Meyer, arms dangling heavily by his sides because he never knows quite what to do with them (so he curls his fists). And already he’s beginning to piece it together. Already there are thin wisps of sharp ire burning in his blood.  

Meyer eyes him coolly, dispassionately – and there’s this emptiness there because he’s so very, very good at secreting anything else away. For a harsh little moment, Charlie almost feels a brief twinge of resentment, because isn’t he more to Meyer than just another pair of hostile, prying eyes? (But the anger isn’t meant for him). Then Meyer’s speaking again, with his hands folded neatly in his lap and his hair tidied as much as he could manage under the circumstances, and it’s gone. “Mickey Doyle ratted us out to Thompson. They’ve been in cahoots the whole time.”

Charlie stares for a long moment, struggling against this surge of white-hot rage swelling against the breakers. Then he’s repositioning his stance, running a steadying hand down his jaw. “What the fuck happened?” His voice is thick with all those violent emotions he won’t be able to keep tethered for long. He feels sick.  

“Nothing.” The word is out too quickly. Spat out and choked on and Meyer hesitates between the safety of silence and confession. And it’s so quiet, for those few seconds – just a ticking clock and a lifeless city and the whispering of unfinished facades. Then there’s Meyer’s voice again. Even. Businesslike. He’s sought out any relief and fallen back on familiar detachment (there’s no pain there) (not yet). “Lucien and Matteo D’alessio are dead. They lynched one of Chalky White’s men a few months back – _unbeknownst to us_ – and he was less than impressed.” (Clenched teeth for a moment).

Charlie waves a hand dismissively, “Who gives a fuck? Are you okay? If they fuckin’ touched you—“

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” (He’s pushing for any emotion, any feeling, because Meyer’s withdrawing further and further and this won’t be how he loses him; he’s forcing a reaction and—)

(—he gets one). Meyer turns in his chair to face Charlie, lets his hand fall from where two fingers had been pinching at his neck to clench on the tabletop. His voice hardens, rises; he’s biting on his words. Charlie stands his ground. “What do you want me to say, Charlie? That they had me on my knees in a fucking warehouse for 3 hours? You want me to say that, Charlie? That Chalky White strangled Matteo D’alessio with his bare hands? 2 feet away from me? That I thought I was as good as dead?”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him.”

A rawness has crept into Meyer’s voice; a shrillness that bears the acrid taste of fear and dried tears. “—That I thought you’d read in the newspapers about the bodies of some no name, two-bit gangsters found mangled in a garbage dump in Atlantic City? Because as far as I can tell, saying that won’t help anybody, least of all me.” He stops. Swallows. Runs a hand slowly through his hair (Charlie catches the tremor in it). Each word is punctuated, articulated – it’s the battle-worn soldier who will rest and tomorrow raise armies (today’s healing wounds will be tomorrow’s call to arms). When he speaks again the words are rough, quiet. Shaking a little. “So I want to sleep. I want to go to bed and forget – just for a few hours – how…” He clenches his teeth, forces out a hissing breath that would be any other man’s scream. “— _fucking_ lousy this whole day has been. And when I wake up, I want us to speak to AR and get ourselves the fuck out of this pointless war we’re in with Thompson.”

“Yeah, I’ll get us out of it. I’ll drive over to that shit-hole city of his and put a bullet through his fuckin’ head.” Charlie’s fingers are trembling because they’ve gone too far, they’ve gone too far – they went too far the second they laid a hand on Meyer and now there’s hot blood rushing in his ears and he could be on the boardwalk in a matter of hours and it would— it would be daylight then but he’s not thinking clearly, he can’t think, there’s only _they hurt Meyer, they hurt Meyer,_ and, Christ, Meyer’s as tough as any vicious storm but storms aren’t reduced to kneeling before their executioners and—

“That won’t do any good for anybody.”

“It’ll do some good for me.”

“Charlie.”

“You think I’m gonna let him get away with doin’ that to you? Huh? We gotta assert ourselves, _Meyer_ , like you always says. These old bosses, these Moustache Petes, they think they can do whatever the fuck they want to us and nobody’s gonna lift a finger to stop ‘em. They think we’re just gonna roll over and shut the fuck up and let it happen. No. I’m fuckin’ tired of it. And they’ve crossed a line, here, tonight. Nucky Thompson’s as good as fuckin’ dead.”

Sensing that Charlie’s wavering and that he’ll have to take back control once more, Meyer straightens a little, – and suddenly he’s the sensible businessman, he’s the voice of reason; he’s reclaimed his façade entirely. And Charlie knows he shouldn’t go off the rails – he should stay calm, for Meyer’s sake; he should talk this through, for Meyer’s sake. Because this isn’t about him, it’s about _Meyer_ – he’s the one who came here seeking refuge and now he’s going to be the one soothing Charlie. He knows. He knows it isn’t fucking fair. But it doesn’t stop him. There’s just this _rage_. (And somewhere at the back of his mind he knows thinking logically is good for Meyer).

“One day, Charlie. Not now. Whatever happened tonight, we gotta keep looking to the future. And in a few years, Thompson’s gonna be more use to us alive than dead. His era’s almost over and he’ll be on his knees before it’s out.” With that, Meyer stands and makes his way over to pilfer a cigarette from one of Charlie’s cases. Charlie follows him with his eyes, watches silently as Meyer tips his head back, exhales, stands there for a moment in the smoke and the grey before turning back to face Charlie. And it’s dark, it’s warm, and Meyer’s eyes are a little red and, fuck, they made him look like this (a little voice under his skin echoes _beautiful_ ).

“Yeah, but… He hurt you, Meyer.” Charlie’s eyes find Meyer’s – and for a moment, just a moment, he’s looking down and out and in and the hatred in his chest falters and cools and gives way to _I could have lost you._ And in the sudden quiet Meyer’s looking back; and he can’t quite manage to hold Charlie’s gaze for more than a heartbeat at a time – his eyes are skittish and shy and the rest of him follows (nervous muscles in his throat and hands and jaw). But he’s looking back and he’s saying _you didn’t_.

“This business we’re in, it’s inevitable.” Softer.

Then Charlie blinks and the wrath has crawled back in.

He bears his teeth, gestures wildly. “Don’t mean I gotta sit on my ass and let some fuckin’ Jersey clown crap all over us like we ain’t worth _shit_. I ain’t gonna allow it, Meyer – he can do whatever the fuck he wants with me but what he done tonight? Goin’ after you? I’ll fuckin’ kill him. I’ll gut him like a fuckin’ pig. I can see him, Meyer – sittin’ on his scrawny ass with that Mick whore of his, like a king, laughin’ because he knows we ain’t got a damn chance of retaliatin’ with the way things is. Well, maybe change ought’a come a little sooner than we been anticipatin’. Maybe he goes tonight. I’ll wipe that smug fuckin’ grin off his fa—.”

“You’re not _listening_.” Meyer’d still been clutching the slowly-dying cigarette between two fingers; now he slams his fist down on the sideboard with a resounding _thud,_ extinguishes it in an ashtray before he’s even taken his second drag. A thin coat of soot stains his fingertips. Charlie stills. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, not tonight.”

Charlie hesitates for a moment before taking a step closer – and another step, until he’s half-closed the distance between them. And he can read Meyer better than anyone but right now even he can’t make sense of that wary dusk behind his eyes. When Charlie speaks again, his voice is quieter, soothing, though the words are thick with the ruthlessness of a battle cry. “But I _know_ you, Meyer – we don’t talk about this now, you ain’t never gonna be in the mood for it. It’ll be like it never happened and Thompson and all those Jersey fucks’ll think what they done tonight is alright by us.”

Meyer bristles defensively; he takes a step closer. “You’re putting the blame on _me?_ ”

“What the fuck do you think?” Charlie draws back as though struck; and then he’s defensive as well, because sometimes he almost forgets that Meyer carries around just as much fire as he does – he forgets because he’s far more accustomed to the ice until the flames _burn_.

“This is my fight, Charlie – if I need your help, I’ll ask for it. For now, back the _fuck_ off.” Meyer’s close enough that he’s finally had to raise his head a little to meet Charlie’s gaze.

“You can be an ungrateful little prick sometimes, y’know that? I’ve risked my ass for you a thousand times over and now you’re sayin’ we ain’t even in this together?” There’s a tremour running through Charlie’s fingers – because of the anger, the hurt; because he can feel Meyer’s breath – short, fast – fanning across his neck; because he can smell the faint hint of alcohol, because he’s close and there and _alive_. The ire fades for a second time and he’s left struggling to speak. “He done this to you but it hurts so much that it’s the same as if he done it to me. So don’t fuckin’ try to tell me this ain’t my fight, too.”

Meyer pauses, studies Charlie’s face for one, two, three seconds; his own anger wavers, quietens – in another moment it will be smothered, tucked away far from any whisper of sunlight or touch. “I can handle Thompson on my own.”

Charlie’s voice dips lower; he can feel his pulse pounding in this temples – in his throat, his fingertips, his _blood_ and he takes a shuffling half-step closer, a half-step back, swallows and hesitates and forgets to breathe, forgets how to. Because he could have lost him but Meyer’s _there_ , he’s _alive_ – Charlie can hear him breathing (though it’s faltering now), feel that warmth that’s always been a little cool, see his eyes beginning to dart again beneath his lashes because they haven’t been this close in months; he’s there and he’s close enough to touch and he hasn’t drawn back. He hasn’t drawn back like he so often does and that has to mean _something_ _(I could have died and my final thoughts were of you)._ Charlie draws in a shuddering breath. “It don’t gotta be on your own, Meyer.”

He closes the final distance between them, eyes hooking on Meyer’s to watch for any flicker of revulsion or outrage; he waits for Meyer to shout, push him back, retreat – but he doesn’t. Not as Charlie settles his palm lightly against Meyer’s cheek; not as he runs it back to settle at the nape of his neck and urge him a little closer. Meyer’s unmoving, tense – the air in his lungs has hushed and the room around them has followed suit (this city of theirs sleeps). There’s only Meyer shivering under his hand; only wide eyes (disbelieving) and cracked lips and Meyer’s chest scarcely daring to move against the rise and fall of Charlie’s own desperate breaths – and for a long moment they’re effigies (not lifeless, never lifeless – there’s too much humming anticipation and heat to be lifeless), both still because a finger lifted too soon could shatter this delicate haze of courage; this courage borne of defying death. They hold each other’s eyes (Charlie’s half-hooded; Meyer’s _wild_ ), suffocating on the shallow gasps shared between them—

Then Charlie tilts his head, leans in, feels Meyer’s trembling exhalation against his lips; he leans in and Meyer’s eyes slip shut—and the kiss is a storm-churned sea rendered quiet; the kiss is the wind stilled between tempests and the hush of pre-dawn. And there’s so much _hesitation_ ; for a second, a moment, a _lifetime_ , it’s waiting for the other to come to his senses; it’s _this won’t last_ but _oh, what if it could_. Charlie’s brow furrows lightly because he has to feel everything, he has to _remember_ everything – for when this is over; for when they’re both broken and ruined and silent; he has to remember how warm Meyer’s lips are against his; he has to remember how they part – slowly, uncertainly, with a stifled little whimper _(doubt)_ – and how Charlie deepens the kiss and tastes everything Meyer has never said aloud (and there are so many secrets in his hot, wet mouth).

It’s Meyer who shifts forward, slips his hand up to clench in Charlie’s uncombed hair, wind the curls round his fingers and tug. Charlie chokes out a heavy gasp – feels Meyer’s heart stumble quickly against his chest as though he’d been anticipating exactly that. And it’s enough. It’s an invitation. The kiss quickens, deepens still, punctuates itself with thin, brittle breaths that turn into pants, that turn into moans, that turn into Charlie’s tongue against Meyer’s teeth and warmth threading through his cock. And he can’t think, he can scarcely stand; there’s only the smell of the lightbulb burning dust in the corner – there’s only the darkness (thick and hot and suffocating) and want and _Meyer_.

And he’s never—he’s only ever done this with girls (young and pretty, whispering Sicilian or Yiddish or English, it didn’t matter), and that’s easy, it’s expected, it’s encouraged – it’s boasted about on street corners because fucking your first broad in an alley way or a grimy back room is a right of passage. But no one’s saying “this is how you kiss another man” _(“this is how you kiss a boy”)_. No. That’s muttered about in frightened tones; that’s condemned in sermons and laughed about by violent youths who don’t want to be mistaken for a finocchio. That’s _wrong_.

But now Meyer’s teeth are leaving bruises on his lower lip – now there’s only Meyer’s tongue and hands (at his scalp, on his neck) and his taste and, oh, this is more a lesson in faith than ever Charlie’s heard. Charlie’s hand drifts down Meyer’s neck, side (he can feel his ribs through the coarse material of his jacket), to settle at his waist and pull him closer; his fingertips dig into the small of his back and Meyer lets a frail whine escape into Charlie’s mouth, instinctively rolling his hips forward in a single, jerking motion. Charlie’s grin is lost to a harsh moan. He drags his hand lower to toy with Meyer’s waistband, fingertips slipping beneath to burn themselves upon bare skin; Meyer’s spine arches against his palm – and there’s the light pressure of his erection against Charlie’s thigh; there’s Meyer drawing in a sharp, staccato breath and faltering, breaking the kiss, tensing as though he’s preparing to step away.

“This is—this is okay?” Meyer’s voice is rasping, low with arousal; for a long moment Charlie can’t understand what he’s asking – there’s just the roughness of Meyer’s voice close to ear and it’s almost enough to undo him then and there.

“What—yeah, fuck, Meyer— _yes_.” Charlie chokes out a ragged sound more breathless pant than chuckle. He rocks forward, easing his thigh more firmly between Meyer’s legs until Meyer’s breaths are erratic, shallow – until he’s pressing down into the friction, grinding with short, uneven motions and grazing his hipbone against Charlie’s cock each time. Charlie’s fingernails gouge deeper into his hips. Meyer’s head tips back, eyes squeezed shut and flittering, hand dropping from Charlie’s hair to score thin scratches down the back of his neck. Charlie gasps, dips down to bury his face against Meyer’s neck (drowns himself in the smell of him, the sound of him falling to pieces) (and this is happening, this is _now_ – every little noise Meyer can’t quite swallow down is Charlie’s; every hitched inhalation and quiver and half-word growled out in one language or two or none is _his_ – severe little Meyer with the world on his shoulders is finding relief, _pleasure_ , and it’s because of _Charlie_ ); then he’s tilting his head to nip and kiss at Meyer’s exposed throat – no rhythm, no easy cadence, just his tongue at his jugular one moment, his teeth leaving dark little smudges at his jaw the next _(thank you, thank you, I love you, you’re alive)_ (he’s sure Meyer doesn’t mean to cry out like that) (and, oh, he’s beautiful when he’s laid bare and _vulnerable_ ).

With a hand flitting up to the nape of Meyer’s neck, Charlie guides him back into a deep kiss; and Meyer’s more confident now, more self-assured – enough to take the lead, enough to lean forward onto his toes and lessen the degree to which Charlie is looming over him, enough to settle his palms either side of Charlie’s jaw, the pads of his thumbs pressing firmly (possessively) into his cheekbones (hard enough that they ache). Charlie rolls his hips, a swell of hot giddiness surging through him and gathering in his crotch as Meyer bites down on his lower lip with a quiet almost-snarl.

Then Charlie’s stumbling backwards, legs unsteady, urging Meyer to follow him with a finger hooked round one of the clips of his suspenders and the other hand against his cheek. He finds the couch with the backs of his knees, stops before he unbalances – switches places with Meyer, eases him down onto his back with an incline of his head and a little nuzzle. For a heartbeat Meyer hesitates, pupil-blown eyes searching Charlie’s face (lips red and swollen, hair tussled and as untamed as Charlie’s ever seen it, cheeks flushed with blood); then he’s letting himself fall, backing himself against the opposite arm of the couch and propping himself up on one elbow. Watching. Waiting. Chest heaving, cock hard beneath his trousers. _(Pleading)._

Charlie takes only a second to drink in the sight before he’s joining him, lowering himself down in an awkward mess of limbs until he’s half-pinning Meyer and settling between his legs eased open to accommodate him, a portion of his weight still kept free of Meyer so as not to crush him. Charlie finds his lips again, the impact of the kiss so solid _(vicious)_ that Charlie’s teeth twinge; Meyer’s hands stutter down to bunch in the fabric against Charlie’s waist, drawing him down closer until there’s no distinction between their heartbeats – between lungs and veins and half-formed crowns. The sensation of Meyer’s cock against Charlie’s tears a thick groan from him.

“Meyer—“ He wants to say more, wants to tell Meyer everything he’s ever felt for him, wants to show him every dream and fantasy that’s haunted him every night for a year in just one _touch_ —but one of Meyer’s thumbs is against Charlie’s lips, against his teeth, in his mouth, and Charlie leans down to kiss him and it’s enough.

With a palm against the inside of Meyer’s thigh (pressing down into the sensitive flesh like an almost-thought), Charlie thrusts forward, shuddering and struggling to breathe past a throat constricted by smoke and desperation; Meyer arches into the friction with a hoarse cry torn from the back of his throat, fingertips digging into Charlie’s shoulder blades as he urges him to do anything, anything. Wrenching Meyer closer with a hand on each thigh, Charlie thrusts again, faster, dragging his hipbones against Meyer’s – and again and again until what’s left of Meyer’s self-suppression is broken; until there’s only this heat and pressure against the strain in their cocks – until Meyer’s biting down on his own fist and leaving deep red grooves as parapets against the lust-riddled screams forming behind his teeth (the words that are already tripping off Charlie’s tongue in moans and curses). Charlie eyes him from behind this haze, this cloud of ocean that’s swimming behind his lashes and spotting at the edge of his vision.  

In the near-frenzy of need and desire, one of Charlie’s legs slips off the couch and he’s left straddling Meyer’s thigh, the other leg still between Meyer’s knees. And it’s not romantic, it’s not synchronised – it’s clumsy and frantic and Charlie’s grinding against Meyer’s leg like a sex-starved schoolboy and neither has bothered to undress; and their teeth click together with each desperate kiss and once or twice Meyer pushes upwards against Charlie’s chest because he can’t breathe beneath him. And when they come, within seconds of each other, it’s too soon and it’s too quick and Charlie really ought to be embarrassed that he’s spilled into his trousers like this is his first time— but they’ve disappeared into this fog of _finally_ and _now_ and Meyer’s there, he’s alive – he’s quivering under Charlie, hair damp with sweat, eyelids trembling against the final traces of ecstasy; and Charlie’s face is buried in the crook of Meyer’s shoulder as his breathing slows and evens and he might be mumbling _it’s okay, it’s okay_ but right now there’s so fine a line between reality and dreams that it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter; and it’s good.

When he feels Meyer shift beneath him, Charlie rearranges himself more comfortably between his legs and draws back enough to study him. Meyer’s eyes are wilting, his muscles soft and loose; he waits for Charlie to smile, slow and easy, before returning it. For a long moment there is nothing but a tired, heavy silence – warm and drifting. Lazy contentment. Then—

 “We’re gonna get outta this war, little Meyer.” Charlie’s voice is a low, pleasure-hoarse rumble, more languid purr than anything. He lifts a hand to run his knuckles lightly down Meyer’s cheek, across his lips, back up to cup his face lightly. His voice drops lower, till it’s scarcely more than a slurred murmur against Meyer’s skin. “Save our strength for somethin’ worth our while, later on. Together.”

Meyer nods, silent but for a gentle hum.  

“Y’know, you got the prettiest eyes. I never seen nothin’ so dark.” Charlie studies Meyer for a moment, watches as his eyes crinkle a little in soft amusement, before ducking his head to settle light, lingering kisses to Meyer’s lips, to their corners; once or twice Meyer deepens a kiss – slow, leisurely. “I just wanna stay here like this, with you, don’t matter ‘bout anythin’ else – fuck Thompson, fuck the war, fuck AR. Fuck the whole world. Just you.”

Meyer offers a small, weary smile, hand stirring from his side to brush against Charlie’s palm before dropping back down. “Fuck the world,” he echoes, quiet and lilting towards the tightness of faint laughter.

Charlie grins – tenderly, fleetingly. And he’ll regret saying all this; he’ll regret not biting his tongue and keeping quiet; but for now he’s forgotten himself on the fine mist of last consciousness and sated longing. “I could lose everythin’, every penny, right now, and I wouldn’t bat a fuckin’ eye. I just want you. There ain’t nothin’ else in the world I want more. Just you, Meyer.” It sounds so very much like begging; like _please_ and _tell me this is okay_.   

Now Meyer does chuckle – vague, like an afterthought. He swallows, lets his eyes slip shut for a moment. His voice is gentle. Already wandering. “We play this right, Charlie, there’s no reason we gotta lose anythin’.”

And Charlie can breathe because that was _yes_ and _this is okay_. And for a moment more there’s whispers and the shift of skin on skin as Charlie slips out of his jacket and discards it on the floor; for a moment there’s a softly chuckled “all up, you probably slept 12 hours in all the years I known you” – and a smiled “you aren’t helping”.  

And then it’s silence. Warm, airless silence; and sleep; and the reassurance, the comfort of a solid weight beside Charlie – on his chest, tucked under his chin, an arm forgotten on his stomach and a leg crooked over his. It’s harmonised breaths and companion heartbeats.

(It’s waking up in the morning to find himself alone).

(It’s Meyer slipping away in the early hours).


End file.
